


Lineage

by moon_opals



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-27
Updated: 2018-09-27
Packaged: 2019-07-18 07:51:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16114073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moon_opals/pseuds/moon_opals
Summary: "What about Mr. Beakley?""There isn't a Mr. Beakley," Webby said. "There never was one."In the aftermath of the Shadow War, the boys learn a little bit more about their sister.





	Lineage

**Author's Note:**

> AU at its finest. I don't know what S2 and S3 will hold, but it was fun to play around.

Clean up was an unavoidable chore following what national and international news dubbed _The Shadow War._ Collateral damage was at an all time high. Casualties were at an an all time low, which meant none were documented.

Once cleanup reached completion, once recovery efforts had packed their equipment and embarked for the latest disaster, once the last of the patients injured in the unnatural disaster was released from Duckburg General, one assumed news coverage would be satisfied.

Roxanne Featherly claimed McDuck and Family saved their beloved city. No one disputed that. Questions were asked. Answers were wanted. Who? How? Why? Featherly praised the city’s wealthiest resident while asking her viewers in the subtlest of approaches _Would the city need to be saved if not for McDuck?_  Her velvet tongue accurately guessed what questions to press, what fears to fester.

Scrooge’s executive board anticipated this. His recent PR Team was the best of the best, and for the first time, the first of many times, stood Daisy Pato of Duckburg. Her thick, coarse, curly hair was dressed in a bright, champagne bow, and she stared into the cameras, reciting a speech she and her team prepared. She answered questions she and her team had marked down as the most likely, aware nothing was to be evaded in light of recent events.

The four children were not quite huddled in front of the television. Huddling was what you did when there was a single, box shaped, not evenly spaced television set squatted in an uncomfortably small room. The four children sat in their respective seats, albeit closely to where their elbows and shoulders occasionally touched, chewing on beef jerky, drinking lemon-lime pep, unable to worry their minds over past transgressions.

“Are you saying Scrooge McDuck is not to blame for this?”

“Ma’am, that is a valid concern, but we know we live in a world of impossible varieties. Not every attack on this city can be blamed on Mr. McDuck or McDuck Enterprises.” Ms. Pato explained in a soothingly firm tone, “Remember, following ‘The Shadow War’ McDuck Enterprises’ recovery efforts  exceeded the national level. We have done everything we can to assist dislocated workers and people who have tragically lost their homes during this awful event.”

“And what do you say of Glomgold Industries.”

“Excuse me, what of it?”

“Glomgold Industries has also done an appropriate amount of recovery efforts that has been noted.”

Ms. Pato nodded, “Of course, with Gilda Glomgold spearheading her father’s -,” the television cut to the next channel where Ottoman Empire was on its twenty-four hour season five marathon.

Huey’s complaint sounded first. “Hey, change it back. I want to know what happened to the National Redstone Park.” He rolled on his stomach, reaching for the remote clasped securely in Louie’s hand. Louie smirked at him, aware his normally robust (and collected) older brother was indulging in the finer things of life. He shifted three inches to the left, far enough from Huey’s weak grasp with minimal effort.

“Nuh-uh. You can check online for an answer, or maybe you can check the J.W.G.” His victorious smirk strengthened above Huey’s sluggish glare. Louie reclined in the chair. Dewey groaned on the floor, in the center of his brothers. His eyes rolled dramatically to the back of his head, reappearing seconds later due to strain.

“Another Ottoman Empire marathon?”

“What? It’s classy reality television.”

“I don’t think you can call any reality television show classy.”

Louie gasped, affronted, “That is not true. You learn so much about elegant furniture. Can you tell the difference between an ottoman, tuffet, or zafu?”

“Two of those are the _same_ thing.” Huey dove into the popcorn bowl, grabbing a fistful and shoved it greedily into his mouth. Kernels and crumbs fell out of the corners onto the formerly clean cushions. He didn’t think he’d blamed this time, and he was the likeliest to grab the vacuum cleaner later.

“It doesn’t matter. There _are_ differences.” Louie explained. He raised the volume to drown out their groans, which had grown more annoyed the louder the elder brother’s (they couldn’t tell the roosters apart) voice became, “And we’re going to learn about them plus their price ranges.”

Huey and Louie bickered about the not so obvious differences between an ottoman and tuffet, though the zafu was safe. That was an entirely different thing. Dewey lied on the floor, tired, bored out of his mind, and annoyed that Louie’s and Huey’s argument had lasted far longer than it should’ve. He raised his head an inch, noticed Louie’s suddenly lax grip on the remote, and grinned.

“Hey!” He snapped. He reached for the remote but was too slow, and lazy. He fell back against the cushion, shoulders slumping in relief. It was too good for its own good. So easy to fall asleep. Dewey tucked the remote under his arm, not completely, and clicked back through the channels. _Talk-show. Soap Opera. Doctor What: Series 10._ Dewey frowned. There really was nothing good on tv these days.

“Hey wait!” Webby said.

Dewey stopped. “What?”

“Go back.”

“What?”

“I said go back.” She waved at him, motioning for him to pedal through the channels slowly. Dewey listened. Her eyes were glued to the screen, waiting to find that thing she had seen, which had gone unnoticed by the rest of them.

“Webby -,”

“Stop.” She said. “Look.”

Channel 9 News. Not another press conference, something the city appeared fond of. It was a helicopter view of the wreckage of the city, weeks later, but the boys knew this wasn’t what Webby meant. She leaned forward in her chair, her chocolate graham bears sticking on her plaid sweater vest.

An abandoned theatre near the marina. It was as it appeared the first time they met, tattered stars and a crescent moon grinned into the camera. “One of the few places left intact during the attack, though there have been talks of reconstruction,” Roxanne Featherly reported a safe distance away. Huey, Dewey, and Louie gasped, their heads turning to Webby whose shocked expressions teetered into startled emptiness.

“Webby?” Dewey asked.

“I should’ve known.”

“What?” Dewey sat up, “How could you have known?”

“Yeah.” Louie wrapped an arm around her shoulder, “Of all things we could’ve predicted, none of us could’ve predicted that. Like what are the odds of that happening? Of Lena being a shadow creation?”

“Louie.”

“Yeah, Huey?”

“Be quiet.”

Webby shook her head. “No, you don’t understand.” Whatever tears she spent spreading were put to rest later that very night, when they returned to the mansion, capturing the possum in a steel cage found in the garage (Donald was perfect bait), and were given rest while the adults dealt with adult matters. Cleaning came later.

“What don’t we understand?” Huey asked.

“I mean I get _why_ she didn’t tell me. I do. I get pragmatism. I get not being able to tell me." She gestured to her chest, "I wouldn’t have told me if I’d been in her position. But I don’t understand _my_ obliviousness to her problems. Why didn’t I sense anything? Or why didn’t I suspect anything; family was always a touchy subject for her. I should’ve asked why, but I wanted to respect her privacy.”

“So why were you digging through my sock drawer?” Louie asked.

Webby’s brow scrunched together, “I wanted to know why you keep you losing your socks. Why wear a mismatched pair around the house?”

“One, they get lost in the wash. I can’t be blamed for that. Two, I’m wearing them in the house. No one cares.”

“I care.”

“Hush, Huey.”

Whether their execution or diversion intent amused her, Webby laughed. A nasal, bell chiming laugh that she did not try to stifle with a hand covering her mouth. Huey, Dewey, and Louie sighed, relief filling half of their guts. As her laughter died, sadness crept into the corners of her eyes, she murmured, “I would’ve understand...at least the shadow part, I could’ve helped her.”

She spoke softly, as if an afterthought, as if something she had recently understood. They weren’t meant to know this, or to have seen it depending on the way her head lowered, bangs and lower hair ends obscuring her face.

Huey fidgeted, “What do you mean by the shadow part?”

“I understand it. Or I kind of do. Being born through magical means and all.”

Huey, Dewey, and Louie passed an expression of confusion, then trickled comprehension that made their spine tango within their bodies. Huey pushed forward, turning on his stomach, pushing his elbow underneath him as a prop. He stared at her. He really stared at her, trying to piece together the unintentional fragments her guilt had laid on the table.

“Wait, born through magical means?”

“Yeah,” she breathed.

“Were you born through magical means?”

“Me?” His question made her pause, creasing a confused frown on her face, “No. I had a mom and a dad, from what I remember, but my mom was different.”

“Different?”

“Yeah.”

“Webby,” Huey took a deep breath. He knew what he was about to say was completely out of the realm of possibility, which was an oxymoron since he had seen with his own two eyes what existed in the realm of possibility (impossible was possible). He asked bluntly, pointedly, with a worrisome squint of his right eye (he knew), “Is there a Mr. Beakley?”

“Uh...no,” she looked at him. “Granny never married, well, not in the traditional sense, I’d suppose under current law they’d be in a common law marriage or something like that,” she rocked in the chair, pinching her toes absently. She didn’t notice their bewildered, amazed expressions, the disbelief scrawled on Huey’s, the addled skepticism on Louie’s, and Dewey’s confused yet amazed glow.

“So, why is she called Mrs. Beakley?” Dewey asked

“An honorary title she’s picked up over the years. Beakley is her maiden name.” Webby shrugged.

“If there isn’t a Mr. Beakley and never was a Mr. Beakley,” Louie slowly strung the process along, like an aged train on a cracked railroad, knowing its destination was far and near at the same time, “then where did you come from, Webbs?”

“Oh.” It was then, in that very moment, Webby realized her family history was not the norm. A man and a woman, hardworking and dainty, didn’t plant the seeds of what blossomed to be Webbigail Vanderquack. She weighed their patient expressions, gaining the realization she was now the storyteller, holder of secrets, and they were eager listeners.

“Um...well, it started, from what Granny told me...when she was still on active duty.”

* * *

Bentina Beakley claimed countless completed missions under her name. She had quelled numerous rebellions and would be revolutions, saved more people than what was considered normal. Her accomplishments postulated she was simply the best of the best, better than the majority of her peers, but she reasoned this was the agency’s intention.

All agents needed to feel some sort of accomplishment, disjointed or undeserved or righteously claimed, on the spectrum. This encouraged productivity, nurtured healthy rivalries to ensure success. Bentina didn’t mind. She didn’t actively participate, and accepted this was an unfortunate requirement of the job.

Of her successfully completed missions, which were numerable in their variety, few had properly prepared her for what she was to encounter on her latest one. Seated at the dining table, she studied her hostess, current target, current partner, and tested the meal on her plate, slicing the corner off with her fork.

“It’s varza a la cluj,” she explained. “A delicacy in northern parts.”

“It’s delicious.” Bentina meant it. An unusual taste, but not a bad one. It filled her mouth, sticking to her teeth, and she swallowed gladly. Her hostess smiled on the other side of the table.

Confident, smooth, nothing malicious, but warning her malevolent forces lied dormant around them, her smile wasn’t a full smile, not in the way Bentina knew them, “I’m happy to hear. Tourists should know more about this country’s unique culture rather than outdated stereotypes.”

“Forgive me for saying this, but we are in Vladstone Castle.” His portrait’s haunted stare examined them below, an unnervingly steady vigil over their meal. It was aware, they suspected, of its constantly changing scenery. Bentina coughed into her fist, “Isn’t he partly to blame for aforementioned vampiric stereotypes?”

Her hostess grinned. “It is not a presumptuous argument. He was known as a vicious conqueror to his enemies, a formidable if righteous ruler to his subjects, and to his family, a solemn but dedicated personification of familial values.”

“Hm,” Bentina sniffed. “And what of the Five Treasures?”

Long, slender fingers interweaved. “It appears we reached an impasse,” she rested her chin on her plaited hands, “I knew the reason for your visit would reveal itself.” She raised a glass of the reddest wine Bentina had ever seen, which was not blood she insisted, and winked at her.

* * *

“You have two grandmas,” Huey said. “Two biological grandmas, on the same side of the family.”

“I do,” Webby said. “The rest of the family lives in our ancestral home.”

Louie leaned on his elbow, “Is it Vladstone Castle? Where the Five Treasures is?” Starry eyed at the prospect of another treasure to grasp in his clutches, he leaned forward, closing their respectable distance by inches.

“Well no, Vladstone Castle isn’t our ancestral home. We’re distantly related to him on Grandfather Moloculo’s mother’s side, so he’s more of a great uncle.”

“Hold the phone, you’re related to some mystic dead dude who may or may not be a vampire?” Dewey changed his position on the floor, now sitting upright, gripping his ankles in growing interest.

“And is in possession of a great treasure, right? You said Five Treasures, so that’s more than one and less than six,” Louie specified.

“It is, but that’s not what this story is about,” Webby reminded him. “And besides,” she grabbed a pillow, placing it on top of her legs for something to rest on, “the map of the Five Treasures has been lost for centuries. No one knows where it’s gone. Bunica was house sitting for Grandfather Moloculo.”

“Bunica?” Dewey asked.

“Grandma,” Huey clarified.

“Thanks.”

“So, I can continue?”

“Gosh, thank you, back to the gold - I mean _story_.” Louie chuckled nervously at Huey’s and Dewey’s annoyed faces, and nodded, coughing to clear his throat (and to cut the unbearable tension), “Oh come on, let's get back to the story, people.”

* * *

“I told you.” She crossed her slender arms, a smirk tip toed onto her beak, “I told you it was not here, and yet you insist on carrying on as if you are still just a spy.”

Bentina shut the door, surprised that she didn’t slam it in her frustration. She spun around, hands on her hip, and marched to the slightly shorter woman, “I know you and your family are hiding it, and I wish, for all our sakes that you would simply tell me where it. It’s true the completed map of the Five Treasures has been lost for as long as you’ve been alive, which I may remind you is extremely long -,”

She huffed indignantly.

“But I must return information to my superiors. S.H.U.S.H. was given authentic information revealing someone or thing has been lurking in this castle for a piece of the map. If our contacts are correct, then you know what their goals are.”

“And why do you think I am here?” White flames burned in the pit of her pupil. Bright. Deadly. Lovely. Blinding. She stalked to her, feet hidden within her crimson skirt. She jutted her beak up towards her, meeting her eye to eye, daring her to interject and ready to deal consequences in return, “I have guarded this castle for over three centuries, and in those centuries, none has entered this castle without my notice. I beseech the bats, and they heed my call. Observe all areas of this castle, even the deepest, most dangerous corners. I have called to the shadows and their ever exhaustive sights. I do this out of love for you, of humanity, and our child.”

At that their glances traveled to Bentina’s abdomen. It was, for the most part, smooth and unremarkable. Her muscle and weight concealed the egg’s developing oval shape, but a small hump, when pressed closely, was visible. Her muscles relaxed around her eyes and beak corners. She sighed. Her hand fell on her stomach tender surface.

“I worry for you.”

“I know. I know,” she said. “I know this job, my work is...not the safest for a child, especially while carrying one. We’re fortunate S.H.U.S.H. hasn’t asked any questions about my current condition.”

“And what will they say when you lay?” She wrapped an arm around hers, leading her down the hall, “Are you going to tell them some random beau impregnated you during your investigation?”

“It’s far more believable than the truth,” Bentina’s palm was warm, callus ridden in a terribly comfortable way that made her bubbly. She wondered what her palm felt like to her, covered in scars bruises carefully hidden beneath oil buttered feathers.

As if she were able to feel her thoughts, or sensed insecurity resonating off her swaying hips, Bentina leaned down and pressed a chaste kiss on her forehead, “I believe I am exceedingly fortunate to have made your acquaintance, my darling, and I cannot wait to see what kind of person our son will be.”

“Our son?”

“Yes, a son. His name will be Bertrand.”

“Bertrand!? The last Bertrand in our family died 1556 years ago. We don’t need another Bertrand, and what if our young one is a girl?”

“How about Helene? Or Beatrice?”

“My dearest, we are going to have to discuss your naming preferences after this Five Treasures debacle has concluded.”

“As long as we don’t have to name our child after anyone in your family,” Bentina smirked. “Your naming traditions are quite unusual, and lets not think of the torment our child would endure with Moloculo as a first name?”

“Oh hush, you, Moloculo is a dignified name. At least one Macawber per generation has carried the name. He’d be honored, if he’s a boy.”

“Seeing we are at an impasse,” Bentina sighed, “what names have you decided for our potential daughter?”

Morgana smiled her I want to tell but want to tease more smile, and she snuggled into Bentina’s arm, “The list is long, darling Dark, and I am sure you will find one you like.”

Bentina doubted that.

* * *

“Where is she?”

“Wait a second -,”

“What a creepy looking family.”

“Hey!”

“They’re creepy and they’re kooky,” Dewey sang.

The four children huddled above a leather bound photo album in Webby’s bedroom. Violet stitching was engraved on the front cover, revealing a miniature photo of their family’s recent family reunion.

Webby turned the page and pointed to an aged photograph. Age threaded its yellow colored crinkled into an explosive spiderweb, stretching to every visible corner. Under peeking white they were able to identify an elderly man, one normal eye and its twin, an unearthly crimson shade gloating an ivory pupil.

“She’s right there.” Webby pointed. “I think this was her primary school graduation.”

“Primary school?” Huey asked, “She looks like she’s at least twenty.”

Webby squinted, “Hm. She seems to be about twelve in this photo.” She tapped the inscription underneath the photograph, _Morgana and Moloculo, Aged 12 Years  - month of the solar eclipse._

“Twelve?” Huey asked.

“Granny says it’s possible I’ll hit a growth spurt one of these days,” she said, turning the page. “Oh, this is when she graduated from Eldritch Academy of Enchantment!”

The small, twelve year old girl with long, plaited ebony hair had grown into a mature, visibly awkward young woman whose smile fought against the waned miniature portrait paper. Her hair was twisted, braided into a neat bun, and she held a rolled certificate in her right hand.

“An actual magic school?” Huey gasped.

“Yep. And no, they do not use owls - they’re frighteningly expensive these days.” Another page was turned.

Another page. Another story. A family portrait in front of Vladstone Castle, many, unusual faces smiled back at them as they closed in together. Huey, Dewey, and Louie, peered closely

“Is that a tentacle?” Louie asked.

“It is.” Webby grinned, “That’s Great-Great Aunt Nasty, and in the center is Grandfather Moloculo.”

Huey winced, “Is that a cyclops?”  
  
“Auntie Cornea.”

“Are those two sharing a body?” Dewey turned to her with stars in his eyes. Webby nodded happily, “Uncle Screamy and Uncle Meanie!”

“Screamy and Meanie?”

“Yeah! I know their names sound really bad, but they’re really sweet. Uncle Screamy used to sing lullabies, and Uncle Meanie always played puppet games. Boil, boil, scream and terror, as the villagers run away with their pitchforks in their tails,” she sang.

Louie shook his head. Clutched his head and asked, “And does Uncle Scrooge know about this? He hates magic.”

“Well, yeah. Scrooge will never let them in, but I visit for holidays and stuff.”

Huey continued on, searching through unfamiliar faces until he reached the middle of the album. There was Mrs. Beakley, younger and slightly smaller. Her arm was wrapped around a slender woman’s shoulders. Her smile was demure, sweet even, and she gripped the shoulders of a girl who appeared to be in the range of thirteen to seventeen. Her underdetermined age confused him. If she was thirteen, she was tall for her age, and if she was seventeen, she was still considerably tall for her age.

He noted her hair was darker than night. Her smile shone a stunning brightness that hurt his eyes the longer he looked at it. Her smile burned the sun. Her dress collected mismatched blues, creating a fragrant collage, and popped through the photo’s fraile paper. He trace her neck, adorned with a lapis lazuli chain.

“Bentina, Morgana, and Ginevra, 198-,” Huey murmured. “Webby, is this your mom?”

Louie and Dewey gasped.

“Yeah, that’s Mom.” Webby nodded, “We don’t talk about her much.”

“What happened?” Dewey asked, not noticing his brother’s painful winces to the side.

She shrugged. “I was really young. Mom was a candidate for being the family’s matriarch, and a spell went wrong during the final examinations,” she sighed, shoulders slumping, “we don’t talk about it.”

“Webby, I’m so sorry. I should’ve never -,”

“Don’t apologize,” she reassured them. “I know so much about your family, and you wanted to know more about mine.”

“That’s it, Webbs. We are your family now.” Huey grinned.

Dewey patted her arm encouragingly, “And we just want you to know, like, we’re here for stuff, when you need, even when talking about dark family secrets. We’re all up for dark family secrets, right guys?”

“Why would you say that?” Louie asked.

“I’m a little tired of family secrets after the whole Mom’s lost in space thing,” Huey said.

Dewey and Webby laughed. “Yeah, we get it.”

_“Webby!”_

The shout came from down the hall. Closing the photo album and discreetly returning it to her book shelf, the four children hurried down the hall to where  their family waited for them in the dining room. Lunch was ready, and they were more than happy to put off uncomfortable family secrets to devour their afternoon lunch.

“Oh man, Mrs. Beakley.” Louie sliced the corners in four, equal parts, “This is delicious.”

“Yeah, Mrs. B.” Launchpad hummed, “Ya’ gotta tell me what this stuff is.”

Mrs. Beakley stepped out of the kitchen holding a tray of drinks. Her usual stoic mannerism faltered under their compliments, and she ruffled Launchpad’s hair playfully, setting each drink to its drinker.

“It’s varza a la cluj,” she answered. “It’s a delicacy in some parts of the world.”

**Author's Note:**

> A lot of the references were taken from DuckTales - Darkwing Duck Mythos


End file.
